ちょや
by Peridot Tears
Summary: Japan finds England in a bar. He is not France; so he takes him home for him. Events occur that almost coerce them into reconciling with their guilt; finally coming to terms with what was lost and what can still be found. EnglandJapan and EnglandAmerica
1. Chapter 1

**ちょや**

_Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to...aw, fuck it, you know..._

...

The air was clinging to Arthur's clothes.

Smoke and dust fell, heavy, weighing down like lead on his skin. He was at his weakest state, heaving under the influence of alcohol. He batted at the air ever now and then, at something that was not there, muttering, "Fuck you, Washington...fuck your fake teeth..."

Kiku stood from afar—he did want the occasional sake or umeshu—watching him with the usual stoicism. The cup was in his hand; he was conscious of the smoothness of texture around his fingers. Moments such as this made him feel like a little boy again, with idle hands. Perhaps a little boy watching his parents fight.

"GO BURN, VON STEUBEN!"

Kiku almost winced at the tone of his voice; and heads turned. Someone sniggered. Kiku sighed; it left before he could stop it. This was not the first time he had found Arthur wasted and wallowing in unpleasant memories, and yet he himself had felt too pushed by the awkwardness to act. His thoughts always flashed to Yao, who must've cried in bars like this as well; then swept the guilt away—he was as bad as Alfred, then. Worse, probably.

"Go to hell, volunteer army!" The tankard fell against the counter with a thud—Kiku could never understand why moaning drunkards were always situated at the very bar—and only Arthur himself seemed to not notice something of a hush falling over the scene.

Really, this was a bar—but Kiku did note the unusual quiet tonight; a few solemn mutterings here, a small flirtation there...

The whole room was transfixed as Arthur raved on; Kiku swore that he saw him foaming at the mouth. Another sigh flew past his lips. _Kami-sama..._

"SPAIN! PRUSSIA!" The tankard banged against the tabletop with almost wanton fury, and it was then that Kiku began to move, though at the same time as the bartender. The cup was quickly abandoned. Kiku picked up his pace; his forehead folded in concern. Truly, this seemed to be a little too much...

Arthur was a mess, though that was no surprise; those green eyes were dripping tears; his hair was matted, his clothes were intact rags. And still he wailed with draught after draught of the wine—it must be wine, yes...—slamming his fist against the countertop, voice pitching and falling. "Stupid America! God damn it!" Bam.

By this time, Kiku's concern was mounting. He walked faster; it seemed to be going too slowly, even though he was in fact close to England's seat.

"Lafayette! Burn! Fucking Frenchmen. WINE BASTARD!"

More snickers spread among the on looking bystanders. Now practically distressed, Kiku rushed as much as he could without really jogging, getting there before the chagrined bartender could.

"FRANCE!"

Kiku paused once he was there; Arthur was swinging about, flailing without noticing his surroundings. He tried not to sigh, before saying levelly, a little higher than flat, "Ano..." He could feel eyes on him; embarrassed, he went on gamely. "Aas—Arthur-san..." He was stuttering..._stuttering,_ of all things.

The eyes turned upon him; Arthur had been caught in mid-rage. Kiku, though unnerved, was not the least bit afraid of the beast-like essence in his eyes. "Let's go home...," he said, very conscious of how odd it sounded; someone whistled. His cheeks must've reddened.

"Pardon us," he added at the bartender who was finally there; he bowed and dropped a sum of currency in front of him, wondering whether or not he should ask for payback the next day. One look at Arthur's bleary-eyed condition told him no; the Briton looked too pathetically confused.

"Let's go." Trying not to wince, he threw Arthur's arm around his shoulders, hauling him off; all eyes followed, though he ignored any side-quips. The other nation was unexpectedly heavy. Who had carried Yao home—?

_I'm getting too old..._ Kiku kept that thought purely to himself.

...

Arthur's house was warm. It was heavenly beside the outside frost. Kiku noted that with a subconscious tone.

The Briton himself was still mumbling in staccato beneath his breath; it sounded like a dead shamisen, or a broken qin; a jumble of diverse notes. It was pitiful and somewhat eerie. Kiku caught a few words as he wordlessly dropped—gingerly, however—Arthur onto the couch:

"America...France...war...'ig...fucking...rain..."

"You're drunk," Kiku murmured, as if that wasn't obvious enough.

The green eyes, absent of real color, set sights around the room.

...

_**PT: Will be a two-shot –shrugs- It came to me while my whole family was fussing over a jar of Choya—a brand of umeshu—on New Year's. My mom and aunt were praising its awesomeness, and I was thinking of how I used to turn the jars upside down to see the fruit move x) Personally, I don't trust it after a few sips I had tried of Canadian and French wine –winces- Eh. Reviews would be nice, and I hope you liked this.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**ちょや**

_Disclaimer: Hetalia. It's not mine ._. I swear –raises hands-_

--

Arthur flicked the switch—on, off—and inhaled the cigarette. Blowing a stream of smoke from his mouth, he thought mournfully of the condition his lungs under the cloak of tar—what they must look like at the time—and let his mind flick back to the days when tobacco was new; to think that he had called it _vulgar. _He wanted to laugh.

He inhaled again with surprising deftness—he knew grace beyond the teacup, then. The smoke traveled down his throat and wrapped around his unborn breath; he exhaled again.

Smoking. He was smoking. Of all things for a gentleman—because he _was _one, he thought obstinately—he was smoking. God help him—he was sinking into vulgarity.

But then again, nothing had stopped him during the World Wars. Why stop when there was less of an excuse to see America? God knew he would have even liked to fight him—wrap his fingers around that idiot's throat for the sake of his scones. If he couldn't drink it away, he could certainly smoke it off. Though he loved his drink, it always left him with hellish hangovers the day after. Smoking was hazy—it let him focus more on the flat burn in through his esophagus.

He took another drag, watching the end light up before him. They lit up a grain of the night. It was incredibly relaxing.

"Smoking isn't good," Kiku said behind him, then added to soften his remark, "for you."

Arthur shrugged. "Drinking isn't, either."

"Smoking burns the lungs." Kiku seemed to decide to push his luck, just a little.

"So does drinking."

"Smoking is worse. It mars the lungs."

"So?"

"It just proves that drinking isn't good for you." He then resolved to speak no more. A little grew to prove too much.

"Most things aren't good for you." Arthur, nonchalant, pushed the cigarette back into his mouth, savoring the next breath of smoke. "Like rain." He paused, considering his words. It hadn't killed him...truly, it hadn't. He took another drag.

"Nighttime is," Kiku said softly, seeming to have been dragged into something. Discussion with Arthur was, decidedly, interesting. It led to tones of depth of the heart—or mind. It was not unlike conversation with Greece...but something seemed to be oh-so different about Arthur; he could be so incredibly pitiful at times, and angst seemed to simply appear. It was so like...China...last century, before he became the People's Republic. So strong, so sad. "Weaponry is."

"Of course it is," Arthur scoffed, smoke billowing from his mouth. "That's why they're weapons."

"Aaa."

Arthur took another drag; he noticed the tip diminishing to the molded ash beneath. So soon?

He puffed on his cigarette a moment, noting the lack of anything to say. Exhaled. "I do wonder what America's lungs look like; he smoked a God damn lot last century. The prat."

"He kissed a woman once like that too...."

Arthur, in mid-breath, choked. "What!?" His brain malfunctioned for a moment.

"Ah...he was smoking at...Pearl Harbor..." Kiku flushed "...when he kissed a woman. I think she was a nurse. I only got a glimpse...." He fell silent, red from neck to ears. That had been when he was dropping a bomb, too. The said woman had been doing her job, and Alfred had been rushing off to join the rest of the air soldiers, a half-finished cigarette clenched between his teeth; he had kissed her before he left, and then Kiku saw her blown to smithereens. It was a horrible coincidence...she had been standing too near the water, and Kiku's bomb, though only half submerged, sped through, too close the land, and then—

The way she had blown up in a flash, with a pitched scream...it reminded him too much of another act he had committed earlier. The crumb of memory—the nurse at her last moments—was forever engraved within his mind.

Arthur ignored the mention of the incident. He huffed. "So the prat was actually trying to get it on. What happened to her, anyway?"

"Died."

Arthur's fingers almost slackened; then he reminded himself that he _was_ selfish. Tsundere, was it? "Oh." Back the cigarette went; he _was_ the one who had Jeanne d'Arc sentenced to death (he took no pride in it...he never truly took pride in killing, numbed to it as he was; and World War Two was a shameful reminder; he was a nation, though). "He must've tasted like cigarette smoke, the flipping git." He wanted to laugh; he wanted magnify the derisiveness. All that escaped was a choke. So his America had kissed a girl that he himself, Arthur, did not know. A random girl of his own nation, a human. Then where did that leave him—the one who raised him, took care of him, loved him more than anyone else?—who was capable of loving him so much, even after he had left him of his own accord?

Then again..._you hate him, _Arthur growled to himself; aggression mounted, under the influence of the smoke, his own bitterness, or otherwise. What, his childish mind said, did some random nurse have that he didn't?

"Git," he repeated, then turned to Japan. "I need some ume— That Choya thing with the plum fruits.

Kiku visibly flinched. "After last night?"—he was being bold.

"It's not like I'm going to rape you while drunk." He flung the ashy stick to the ground, crushed it beneath one solid foot. "But I'd care more about my well-being there; you're older, you've probably done it before. Don't want to get AIDs."

Kiku reddened, but said nothing. The issues of the night before were far more complicated than that. It had been absolutely vile, and still so...

"Do you wonder," he said abruptly, "what it probably felt like to be kissing Alfred-san at the time?"

Green eyes flashed his way. "Why?"

"Well, that woman died right after he kissed her...I wonder if she had a good few moments." The memory came again.

"Probably felt good to kiss the prat; better than no one, really." Arthur shrugged with complete and utter indifference. "Anyone ever kissed you?—China, perhaps?"

Kiku paused; Yao had never...as a brother, but never.... He spoke slowly, still unsure of how to answer, still unsure of whether or not he should tell this man, Arthur or not. "Never like that...sometimes on the forehead or the cheek." The guilt was there again; he could never love Yao, but some affection was there, always lingering; this was the man who had handed him culture to mold and shape for himself. The loving older brother but never treated as one; in their youth, perhaps, but never beyond Yong Soo.

"Have you ever," Kiku said, "kissed someone while you were drunk?"—a snort followed immediately after, from Arthur.

"What, like this?" Alfred was going through his mind—yes, that must be it. And Kiku Yao. If there was so much lost love...

Arthur abruptly stalked forward, leaned down at the slightest—he would have tipped Kiku's face upward if he wanted to, but he simply did not feel like it—and ground his mouth against the shorter nation. His tongue, his lips, his teeth...all were painted with swirling smoke and soothing liquor. Wine and cigarette.

Kiku froze; his first instinct was to jerk away. If someone was doing this to him...and he almost did. Lightning struck him, left him so incredibly exposed in a cramped room. It came with flat sharpness, had a sort of appeal to it—vile and sour, but still smooth and biting green; it was like the Dream of The Fisherman's Wife; and he was the wife. Arthur could be the two octopuses. He cared not. He was melting, scorching like a dying fire, to ash blown away in the wind.

"Was it like this last night?" Arthur murmured, huskily; his tongue was prodding about, and it was so incredible...

"Better," Kiku murmured back, with neither a now or then. So Arthur did remember.

They were kissing.

_Yao..._

_Alfred..._

Kiku did not question it; if he was a mere replacement for Alfred then he could take him; somehow he could. The reckless youth that lay within him told him that, with a confident smile, stubborn. And he was thinking of Yao, who was his brother, if he could someday think that with plausible honesty. His thoughts were asunder.

"You went...farther last night."

And then it was wet...one of them, or both of them, was crying. There was so much to cry for, was there not?

"I must still be drunk," Arthur muttered. Their faces were wet. And at some point they were clutching at each other as well.

"To be sure of that." Kiku did not complete his sentence; he pulled back to beckon at the building behind them. "I'm sure you have Choya in there. We can pretend to love each other." He let his face relax into one of stoicism. _So we can both pretend._

And yet...they had time, did they not? To turn lies into truth. For children to grow into adults.

The world was changing, and Kiku was willing to follow it.

Arthur looked him over.

Once. Twice.

Nodded.

"I still hate Alfred," he said.

"I will think about it." Kiku led, beckoned him with an almost eager hand. "Choya?"

"Of course."

--

_**PT: I'm only half-satisfied with this...-shrugs- Many thanks to the reviewers :D**_


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